A Baker Street Carol
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: December Calendar Challenge 2015! Rated T for safety! Day 16: Dancing on ice. Day 17: Moran has a little too much Christmas spirit for his employer's taste.
1. Day 1: Fanmail

_From_ _I'm Nova_ _\- Cubitt (Dancing Men) gives Holmes for Christmas his relative (Mordecai Cubitt Cooke)'s book, "Rust, smut, mildew and mould. An introduction to the study of microscopic fungi." (6th edition, 1898, which is when Dancing Men takes place according to wikipedia.)_

 **==Day One==  
Fanmail**

Watson grinned as he sorted through the post for the day. "Holmes?"

The detective barely looked up from where he was comfortably ensconced with his pipe and papers in his armchair. "Mm?"

"You've received another Christmas gift from another satisfied client." Still grinning, Watson walked over and deposited the parcel in his friend's lap.

"Not again," Holmes groaned. In the years since his return to London, he'd begun to receive Christmas cards from former clients and then actual gifts, ranging from books to magnifying lenses to every type of tobacco under the sun. He glanced down at the label. "Hilton Cubitt." He sighed in annoyance. "That was a most trivial matter—the case practically solved itself."

"You may have saved the man's life, Holmes," Watson reminded him. "Abe Slaney was a rough character."

Holmes waved a disparaging hand.

"Well, go on. Aren't you going to open it?"

Holmes glared up at his friend. "Only if you'll burn it for me once I've satisfied your curiosity."

Watson glanced heavenward. "If I must."

Holmes cut open the wrapping and pulled a leather-bound book out of it. " _Rust, Smut, Mildew and Mould. An Introduction to the Study of Microscopic Fungi_."

Watson picked up the card that had rested atop the book. "It's by a cousin of his: Mordecai Cubitt Cooke." The doctor was careful to hold back a triumphant smile. "Are you certain you want me to burn that, Holmes? It could prove useful."

"Perhaps," Holmes growled reluctantly around his pipe. "Really, Watson, you can stop biting back that smile—you are the most insufferable man when you are proven right!"

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm so happy to be doing this again!


	2. Day 2: A Regular Ebenezer

_From_ _Wordwielder_ _\- Scrooge_

 **==Day Two==  
A Regular Ebenezer**

Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Her Majesty's Indian Army, cleared himself a spot on his employer's desk and perched on it. Professor James Moriarty glared up at him in irritation; Moran smiled back, completely unruffled. "Now, Professor, how can I buy you what you want for Christmas if you don't tell me?"

"My dear Colonel, we have this conversation every December, and my answer remains the same: all I wish is for some peace and quiet. I leave the frivolities of the day to you."

"Much obliged. I _am_ , however, giving you something this Christmas whether you want it or not."

"Moran, do go away—I have exams to grade as well as the Stepney operation to plan."

Moran considered himself a reasonable man. On a good day, he extended the same courtesy to the Professor, and, to be fair, most days were good days. The occasional bad day, however, tended to leave Moran wondering how Moriarty had come as far as he had and stayed there for so long. The man had the most appalling childish streak in him. It rarely manifested itself, but when it did, it was something to behold.

"Professor, you are a regular Ebenezer Scrooge."

"I would take that as a compliment, save that I remained bewildered by your taste in literature."

Moran held up a cautioning finger. "Dickens, sir, was one of the few decent parts of my childhood; I'll thank you not to disrespect it." He hadn't read Dickens in years, but the enjoyment the books had once provided remained one of his fondest memories. And since Moriarty disliked said books, bringing up the stories in conversation was a source of endless amusement.

"For heaven's sake, Moran, are you going to sit on my desk all day?"

"I am seriously considering it. It's a grave proposition."

Moriarty stared at him. "Why do I allow you to waste my time in such a manner?"

Moran grinned broadly. "Why, out of the goodness of your heart, Professor!"

"I thought I was a regular Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Well, to be fair, old Scrooge had to have _some_ goodness left deep down inside him for the spirits to convince him to repent in the first place."

"...I have some goodness deep down inside my heart, is that what you are saying?"

"If you like, it can be thoroughly and profoundly deep down, sir."

"You're too kind."

"Think nothing of it. Now, about that Christmas gift…"

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews thus far—you guys are great!

Y'know, Holmes describes the relationship between Moriarty and Moran as "bosom friends". I think a lot of people forget or ignore this. My personal take on it has developed over the years until, at this point in time, it boils down to "Moran sasses Moriarty all the time and Moriarty lets him get away with it because he's genuinely fond of Moran even if he'd pretty much die before admitting it (and occasionally snarks back at Moran, as well)." In part, I blame Michael Kurland's Moriarty series, particularly _The Empress of India_ (which is, maddeningly, the only book in the series that has Moran as a main character).

Basically, I'll take whatever excuse I can get to write these two because I have so much fun doing it. If you're interested in seeing more stuff like this, you can check out my fic _I, Moran: Untold Tales from Conduit Street_ on my profile. Also, if you want to see a sillier, even more lighthearted take on these two horrible people who happen to be besties, check out astudyinimagination . tumblr tagged / The + Adventures + of + Professor + Moriarty


	3. Day 3: More Things in Heaven and Earth

**A/N:** Okay, the reception for the Moran-Moriarty fic was way more positive and just _more_ than I thought it would be, so thank you for that! Like I said, I'll take any excuse I can get to write them, so they'll probably pop up again sooner or later this month!

* * *

 _From_ _W. Y. Traveller_ _\- 'Seeing is believing'_

 **==Day Three==  
More Things in Heaven and Earth**

In the life of every child who has ever believed in Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, there comes a time when another child attempts to disabuse them of the notion.

Sherlock Edward Holmes was seven years old.

Mycroft found him taking refuge in the the library from the yearly family festivities. The little boy was sitting on a window seat, knees drawn up to his chest, staring out at the snow descending gently beyond the glass. Sherlock looked as though he'd had yet another unpleasant confrontation with his less-intelligent cousins—Ezekiel, in all likelihood, who never treated Sherlock very kindly.

"Penny for your thoughts, brother mine?"

The little boy started and glanced up at his brother before returning his gaze to the snow. "It's nothing."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "Ezekiel said that there is no such person as Father Christmas."

"Ah."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft again, his large grey eyes troubled. "Is he right?"

Father had never allowed Mycroft the luxury of believing in fairytales, but his relationship with Sherlock was more… distant. And it was for the better: Father's strictness could crush his younger son's spirit. Sherlock was more… _fragile_ … than Mycroft.

And Sherlock believed in Father Christmas.

Mycroft saw no need for him to stop, just yet—let the boy have his childhood. There would be time enough for skepticism when they were both men. "Sherlock Edward Holmes, is Cousin Ezekiel _ever_ right about _anything_?"

The little boy giggled suddenly. "No."

Mycroft smiled and sat beside Sherlock. "What else did Ezekiel say?"

"He said that no one has ever seen Father Christmas, and that seeing is believing. That it is foolish to believe in something you cannot see."

Mycroft snorted. "Then _he_ is the fool, brother mine. Tell me, do you love me?"

Sherlock scrunched his small face up into a frown. "Of course, I do."

"Where is that love? Can I see it? Can I touch it?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"How is it real, then?"

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I don't know. It… just is."

"Exactly," Mycroft said gently. "There are always going to be things that we cannot see and yet we believe they are real."

Sherlock's face brightened. "Like God."

"Yes, like God."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh, what if Father Christmas was an angel?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Well, that thought would never have occurred to me. It _would_ explain, however, how he can do what he does. I suppose that if God could part the Red Sea, an angel could deliver gifts to children all over the world in one night. Still—" he held up a cautioning finger—"that is only a theory. You can't prove it."

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. "I know. But it's a nice one, isn't it?"

Mycroft shook his head fondly.

"But, Mycroft? _Do_ you think there's a Father Christmas out there?"

Mycroft wished his brother hadn't asked that; even at his age, Sherlock could tell when Mycroft was lying. The older boy's mind raced. "I think," he said slowly, "that there is a distinct possibility that he may be. After all, 'there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, and turned his gaze once more to the snow outside.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, after the Holmes household had all gone to bed and the lights were put out, a small, shadowy figure slipped downstairs to the drawing room, where the Christmas tree stood. Sherlock Holmes curled up on the settee with an afghan and waited—if Father Christmas _was_ real, he wanted to see him. Surely it would not be long before he arrived… it was already half… past… eleven…

When Sherlock next opened his eyes, he could barely open them, but something had disturbed his sleep. A rustle of movement, a flash of something that might have been _red_ … "Fa'er Christmas?" he murmured drowsily.

"Shh," someone whispered. A large hand gently smoothed his hair away from his face. "Go back to sleep, Sherlock."

Sherlock gladly obeyed, too sleepy to care about his plan anymore. He nestled further into the afghan and returned swiftly to sleep.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hmm, okay, so… you might think that that was Mycroft there at the end, and you're quite welcome to. But I did deliberately leave it ambiguous—it can be as realistic or as fantastic as you want it to be. ;)

Ahhh, been too long since I've done a semi-fairytale, sappy-type thing like this. But if you're at all familiar with my track record, it's how I roll. :D _Especially_ at Christmas!

Also, _**kidlock**_. My _favorite_. Seriously, I love nothing better than to write the Holmes brothers when they were boys! It's so much fun. And yeah, I'm willing to throw in a bad father (I work through my own real-life issues this way, I'm afraid), but I also can't really bear the thought of Sherlock having a bad childhood. So writing kidlock is always a great opportunity to write fluff.


	4. Day 4: Denmark

**A/N:** Thank you to _everyone_ for all the lovely reviews! *showers you with Christmas cookies*

* * *

 _From_ _silvermouse_ _\- Denmark_

 **==Day Four==  
Denmark**

It started when Mycroft Holmes discovered that when one engaged in foreign politics in Whitehall, one's private life was dramatically diminished. In particular, it left him with less time to spend "aiding and abetting" his younger brother, who was still struggling to establish his practice. The first time he had to send Sherlock away, it was because of an incident with the Danish embassy. Sherlock had looked taken aback for a moment in a way that made Mycroft feel terribly guilty.

Then Sherlock accepted it in such a manner that said clearly that he believed that his brother was merely putting him off, and no such incident existed. Mycroft didn't bother to argue: the boy's delusions refused to be challenged.

Over the years, however, there did come times that Mycroft just did not want to deal with his brother's problems. Sherlock was a grown man—he could take care of himself. So on such occasions, Mycroft simply said, "Denmark." Sherlock didn't like it, but he did understand it.

After a good twenty years of using the codeword, Mycroft was dining out with his brother. "Do you know, the original Denmark was a real incident," he said casually.

"Oh, I do know," Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft dropped his fork.

"I made some inquiries at the time and verified it," said Sherlock, clearly relishing this. "But you needed some way to put me off kindly." He shrugged.

"Sherlock, of all the insufferable—"

"Mycroft, people are staring."

"Not as much as they will when I wring your neck, brother mine. I would like to see your baritsu save you then."

Sherlock merely grinned.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, I _tried_ to make this a 221B and failed. Oh well. I'm also a day behind. *sigh* Could not be helped. I'll try to catch up.


	5. Day 5: Responsibility

_From_ _I'm Nova_ _\- It was a dream._

 **==Day Five==  
Responsibility**

 _December 1891_

Mycroft Holmes had taken it upon himself to look after Dr. Watson in Sherlock's absence. Mostly from a distance—however, he _did_ meet Watson on occasion, typically for dinner, to see personally how the doctor was doing. Mycroft did not enjoy lying to the man; it left a distinctly foul taste in his mouth. But he'd devised a way to avoid lying as much as possible.

At these dinners, Mycroft would tell Watson about his brother's past. The incident with Mr. Melas had been the first Watson had heard anything of Sherlock's family—Sherlock did not easily grow close to other people, not for years. And Watson was a writer, a storyteller, and storytellers thrived on absorbing stories as much as they did on telling them. He soaked up everything Mycroft told him.

One night, close to Christmas, Mycroft was feeling particularly forthcoming over the best Chardonnay the Savoy had to offer. "Did you know that my brother once wanted to become a concert violinist?"

Watson shook his head. "No. I'm not even certain what he studied for in university." His expression and voice softened. "A concert violinist. He would have been magnificent."

Mycroft grunted. "Our father would not have agreed with you. He was… an exacting man, to say the least."

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft shook his head. "Well, what's done is done." He had long since suspected that Watson's own father had not been kind. "Sherlock was prodded towards chemistry—not that he needed much prodding, mind you. But there was no branch of the performing arts that our father considered good enough for his family. Mind you, there's irony in that: our great-uncle, great-grandfather, and great-great grandfather were all painters."

"Yes, I remember your brother mentioning that," Watson mused, twirling his fork, his food largely forgotten.

"Sherlock rebelled, of course, as he always did. When he was at Cambridge, he would disguise himself, sneak out, and perform."

Watson's hazel eyes were wide. "What happened?"

"Father found out. By that time, however, he was already leaning towards detective work, so the inevitable explosion between the two was even greater than it otherwise would have been."

"Poor Holmes," Watson murmured.

"Oh, he held his own. It was the first time I had really seen him stand up to Father, and, horrified though I was, I was also proud. Even when he left the house disinherited."

Watson's eyes widened further. "What?!"

"Father said that no son of his would dirty his hands with detective work; it was beneath our class. Sherlock retorted that simple human kindness and decency must also have been beneath Father's class—I'd never seen our sire so furious. In the end, Sherlock was disowned and disinherited, and he left Cambridge to set up shop in London with the little money he had left. But—" Mycroft waved his spoon at Watson—"do you know what was the most remarkable thing in all this chaos?"

Watson shook his head, clearly hanging on Mycroft's every word.

"The most remarkable thing is that my brother still wished to be a violinist. He could have. He would have found better pay that way than he did at first, a fledgling amateur detective who could not afford even a decent roof over his head. I took him in for a time and asked him about it. He was free of Father now; he could do what he liked, and his heart clearly still lay with his music."

"Then why did he become a detective?"

"He told me that his dream of becoming a violinist was only that: a dream. He knew that he was a good detective already, and he felt that, with all the crime and corruption in the world—and the occasional ineffectuality of the official forces of law and order—he had a moral obligation to be a detective."

Watson looked unfathomably sad.

"He did play, sometimes, and even did some acting. But he felt that his true calling in life was to be a detective."

There was a long moment of silence. Watson looked down at his goblet of wine. "Then the world owed him a great debt. Owes his memory a great debt."

"Sherlock would not have agreed," Mycroft said softly.

"Perhaps not. But he always was selfless, when it counted."

Mycroft knew. He knew that this was all to protect Watson and he understood it and even agreed with it… but sitting across from the man, sharing dinner with him, sharing stories of his brother with him… he'd never hated it more.

* * *

 **A/N:** I am SO sorry I'm so behind. Writer's block, real life, and a strong feeling of "what the heck am I going to do with these prompts I have NO inspiration" has been interfering massively, and it doesn't look like it's gonna let up any time soon. I _will_ finish this challenge, though, I swear, and I will get Christmas Eve and Christmas Day posted on time!


	6. Day 6: Landlady of the Year

_From_ _Riandra_ _\- Mrs. Hudson's best cushions_

 **==Day Six==  
Landlady of the Year  
**

Holmes, Watson, and Wiggins all stared in horror at the large stain Wiggins' hot cocoa had left on the cushion. "That," Watson said slowly, "is one of Mrs. Hudson's best cushions. _Was_ one."

"Oi di'n' mean to—"

"No, of course, you didn't," Holmes soothed. "Don't worry, Wiggins: I'll tell Mrs. Hudson I am to blame—she expects it of me by now."

Wiggins frowned. "Mr. 'Olmes, yew can't do that!"

"Well, I'd rather face her wrath and repay her for the cushion than face the possibility of her not allowing you in anymore."

"Holmes, perhaps—"

However, Watson never had the chance to finish, because Mrs. Hudson came into the room, bearing a plate full of biscuits. "Here you are, gentlemen." She stopped short at the sight of the cushion, surprise and anger in her expression.

"Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, "I must apologise. I'm afraid I've been careless, but I am willing to replace the cushion or pay you its value."

"You most certainly shall," the landlady sniffed, setting down the biscuits. "I declare, Mr. Holmes, I have never seen such carelessness in all my—"

"Begging yewr pardon, mum, but it woz me wot did it," Wiggins cut in. Holmes stared in exasperation, Watson in pride, Mrs. Hudson wide-eyed. "Oi'm sorry, mum; t'were an accident, but Oi kin pay fer it."

"My dear boy," Mrs. Hudson said slowly, "you'll do no such thing." She flicked a glance of exasperation up at Holmes, who blushed, then put a hand on the street boy's shoulder. "You can make it up to me by helping me bake Christmas biscuits for your friends."

Wiggins' face lit up. "Cor, really?" He looked over his shoulder at his employer. "She's much nicer than yewr old landlady, guv!"

Holmes stifled a laugh, and it was Mrs. Hudson's turn to blush. "Yes, well, down to the kitchen with you, now." Once Wiggins had gone, Mrs. Hudson turned back to Holmes one more time. "Mr. Holmes, really!"

All the detective could offer was a sheepish smile.

The landlady turned and swept out of the room, muttering to herself. "In all my born days, I have never known anyone who could make so much trouble…"

Watson fell into his chair laughing, and not even Holmes's glare could stop him.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hmm… that was a more distant style of narration than I typically do, but no one character's POV was calling out to me, and omniscient POV wasn't working either. Oh well. And maybe one of these days, I'll catch up!

Once again, thanks for reading, and thank you so much for all the lovely reviews!


	7. Day 7: Mother and Children

_From_ _mrspencil_ _\- a page out of Mrs Hudson's journal_

 **==Day Seven==  
Mother and Children**

Sometimes, I do believe I adopted two boys rather than taking on two full-grown men as lodgers. Mr. Holmes is the worst tenant in London, and Dr. Watson may be a saint, but even saints have their faults.

Today was the anniversary of the terrible battle in which the poor Doctor was wounded. He spent most of the day brooding, while Mr. Holmes was out and about. When Mr. Holmes returned for dinner, the two of them had words; over what, I do not know. Mr. Holmes came back downstairs, frowning in bewilderment.

"Mrs. Hudson," said he, "do you have any idea as to why Dr. Watson is so bad-tempered this evening?"

He may be the greatest genius in London, but Sherlock Holmes can still be as oblivious as the rest of us poor mortals. I told him about the date; his eyes widened and he thanked me and dashed upstairs. The next minute, I heard the sounds of his violin; I don't know what he played, but it was beautiful. Almost heartbreaking.

I declare, I do not know what I shall do with my boys, but on the other hand, I do not know what I would do without them.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry, folks, nothing long from me this time. This is the story that wanted telling and it just took very few words to tell it. Thank you, though, for the feedback and the support—you're all lovely!


	8. Day 8: Family of the Heart

_From_ _Madam'zelleGiry_ _\- Artificial Christmas_

 **==Day Eight==  
Family of the Heart**

The fever lasted a terrifyingly long time. Watson had contracted it while tending people down at the docks, and his senior partner could do very little for him. For days, it was touch and go. Holmes scarcely slept, fueling himself on dangerous amounts of coffee, and when he did slip off, it was only into nightmares.

He got more rest in keeping the fever down and begging a God he'd hardly spoken to in years to let his friend live. After all, there were times when Watson was barely breathing. Times when Holmes would panic and regret every unkind thing he'd ever said to the man, apologising over and over, pleading with him just stay with him— _don't go, not yet, don't leave me, we need you, I need you, stay_ …

But at last the doctor pulled through—Scottish stubbornness, no doubt. There was just one problem with the timing of his recovery: Watson, the lover of all things festive and merry in December, had missed Christmas.

So it was in the first week of January, then, that the Irregulars came and crowded the sitting room and sang carols and gave the doctor the gift they had all chipped in on to buy.

A set of brand-new, leather-bound journals.

"We're still countin' on yew publishin' yewr stories someday, Doc," Wiggins explained, "an' we knew yew was almost finished with yewr old journals."

Watson looked at them with tears in his eyes. "Thank you, boys," he said hoarsely, voice rough from coughing as well as emotion. The Baker Street Irregulars were the dearest lads in the world; Holmes had done well to take them in under his wing as well as employ them.

Llew, an eight-year-old, clambered up onto the settee beside the bundled-up doctor and hugged him carefully. "We're just 'appy yew made it through, Doctor."

Watson wrapped an arm around the child in turn. "As am I, to have returned to such friends." He looked up at Holmes and found his friend watching with a curious brightness in his grey eyes. "Holmes?"

The detective's mouth worked for a moment before he spoke, his voice thick. "Merry Christmas, Watson."

Watson understood, then, that what he'd heard distantly in the haze of fever had not been fever dreams but reality. Poor Holmes. He must have known great loss in his past, to be so terrified of losing one more person. The doctor smiled affectionately at him and said, "Merry Christmas, Holmes. And thank you."

* * *

 **A/N:** This was literally the first thing that came to mind over the prompt: Christmas had to be postponed for some reason (Christmas was sort of postponed last year for my family, when we were all literally sick in bed; it was crazy). From there, it snowballed into the kind of angst-and-hurt/comfort fest you've come to expect from me if you've been hanging around long enough. :D

For the record, I don't at all believe it took Watson like, what, twenty years to see a "great heart as well as a great brain." If we go all Watsonian and play the game, he can't only find out about Moriarty in 1891 (FINA) and yet already know about him in the 1880s sometime before his marriage (VALL). My explanation for the conversation in FINA is that he took it from a much earlier, '80s case and slapped it on to FINA to introduce the readers to Moriarty. If he had to protect identities sometimes, I would expect that he would be taking bits and pieces from different cases to make new tales that still held the basics of the stories he wanted to tell. It didn't take Watson two decades to see Holmes's heart—it just took him something like three or four decades to write about it.

That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it! (And apologies for writing a meta that was literally twenty percent of this chapter's word count!)


	9. Day 9: Most Useful

_From_ _cjnwriter_ _\- A character has an unexpected talent, which comes in very handy_

 **==Day Nine==  
Most Useful**

Mary Watson was about to enter her sitting room when she heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes in conversation with her husband. Well, she certainly did not want to distract them… but she also wanted to know what they were talking about… She stood beside the door and listened.

"—I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for an interpreter, old man," John was saying.

Sherlock groaned.

"It can't be helped: I haven't spoken or heard Hindustani spoken in almost a decade, and I was never in India for very long. Only a couple of months at a time each time, and the second time I was in no state to be learning the language."

"But I shall have to go to Mycroft for a favour, and I owe him several already and you know the cases he sends me on when he collects."

Mary shook her head, straightened, and swept into the room, smiling. "Hello, Sherlock. Hello, John. What seems to be the problem?"

Sherlock was resting his chin in his hand, looking as moody as she had ever seen him. "I have a prospective client from India who understands English but speaks it very poorly. I was hoping your husband could aid me in speaking with him; the man's language is Hindustani."

"Well, then," Mary said, eyes dancing, "it's a lucky thing that one person in this room actually spent the first few years of her life in India."

Both men looked instantly ashamed: John covered his face and Sherlock mouthed a profanity. (Mary couldn't read lips, but his expression was most eloquent.) "How could I have forgotten?" John groaned.

Mary refrained from laughing and shook her head, grinning. "It's all right, dear."

"You can speak Hindustani fluently?" asked Sherlock.

"Sherlock, the nearest thing I had to a mother was my _aiya_ , my Indian nanny. For the first ten years of my life, I spoke better Hindustani than English."

"And you don't mind acting as a translator?"

Mary smiled broadly. "My dear Sherlock, it would be my honor and pleasure."

Sherlock rose and bowed. "As it would be mine to have your aid, dear Mary."

* * *

" _I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius in that way"_ …  
—Sherlock Holmes, _The Sign of the Four_

* * *

 **A/N:** So… knowing a language might not be quite the same thing as a talent, buuuut… I really wanted to do something with Mary! And as soon as I linked her to the prompt, this is what I got and it was too good not to use!


	10. Day 10: The Strangest Stranger

_From_ _Riandra_ _\- Lost keys_

 **A/N:** Since this prompt is from my partner in crime, I have no regrets doing what I'm about to do.

 **==Day Ten==  
The Strangest Stranger**

Sherlock Holmes frowned at the man lounging on his settee. "You require my assistance to find your key?"

"Wayeeeeell," the man drawled, "to be fair, it's a very _important_ key. And it was stolen. And probably by someone very dangerous."

"A child on the street could have picked your pocket," Watson pointed out.

The man—Dr. John Smith—opened his mouth, hesitated, and grimaced. "I… don't think so. I very much do not think so."

Holmes's eyes narrowed. This tall, lanky stranger made no sense whatsoever to him: the brown pinstripe suit was just familiar enough to not be foreign while still looking completely outlandish, the hair was… well, no self-respecting Englishman would allow himself to be seen in public with his hair in such disarray, and the shoes! The shoes were white and red and even stranger than the suit! The detective could deduce no profession from the man, nor even any kind of history or home. The accent was Estuary, working class, but beyond that, there was nothing.

This man was almost a blank page to the man who could deduce the family, past, and livelihood of anyone else in London.

"Nevertheless," said Holmes, "I am afraid I cannot help you, Dr. Smith."

Smith did not seem at all disappointed; rather, an impish gleam appeared in his eyes. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he smiled, "I think you can." He stood. "Mind if I show you gents something? It's in the mews behind Baker Street—completely safe, no danger involved."

Holmes and Watson arched eyebrows almost at the same time.

Smith noticed their expressions and chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Weeeeeell, maybe that's not _entirely_ true, but still." He nodded at the sitting room door, smiling invitingly. "Come on. You'll like this, I promise."

Watson frowned incredulously at Holmes: _You aren't seriously considering this, are you?_

Holmes shrugged and stood. If nothing else, it would be a distraction from ennui; no other cases were presenting themselves at the moment. He turned back to Dr. Smith and said, "What is it you wish to show us?"

"It's a box. A big blue box. Well, it's what's inside the box that's important, and why it's essential that I get that key back."

"Very well, Dr. Smith, lead the way."

The man grinned broadly. "Excellent! _Allons-y_!"

* * *

 **A/N:** I couldn't resist, I really couldn't! I'd been hoping that, for this challenge, I could do _something_ Wholmes (Doctor Who/canon!Holmes, as opposed to Wholock, which is typically crossing DW with BBC _Sherlock_ ). And I figured Ria wouldn't mind my using her prompt for it!

Had to force myself _not_ to reread our co-written version of this scenario, Holmes meeting the Tenth Doctor. (If you're at all interested in reading that for yourself, though—an entire series of Holmes and Watson being Companions, no less—you can check out our shared account under the username **Wholmes Productions**.)


	11. Day 11: First Snow

_From_ _Wordwielder_ _\- The first snowfall_

 **==Day Eleven==  
First Snow**

Mary Morstan missed India. Scotland was a rugged and beautiful country, but it was often grey and cold and nothing like the warmth and sun she'd known all her life. And Edinburgh's nickname, _Auld Reekie_ , was particularly apt: she felt as if the smoke and soot of the city had settled into her lungs and would never leave.

One day, she was walking back to her boardinghouse from school, and the cold was sharp and crisp, and the overcast sky was grey-blue, the color of the sea before a storm. There was a sort of cleanness to the city that she had never seen before, and though the cold pierced her skin and filled her lungs, the very atmosphere felt… not quite magical, but as if magic could happen in it.

She had almost reached her front door when it happened. Something white and wet began to drift down, and it stopped Mary in her tracks. She stared in disbelief—she knew that snow existed, of course, and she'd seen pictures of it, but she'd never seen real snow before.

Her outstretched hand caught a few flakes, each tiny and intricate. Already, a carpet of white lace was beginning to cover the city, softening the harshness. Mary laughed and spun for pure joy, looking up at the sky. "Thank you," she breathed.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm… not quite satisfied with this, but it _is_ a 221B. I could probably do more with it in the future. Being someone who loves winter and gets all excited over the first snowfall, I wondered, "Who would a first snow be the most magical for?" Admit it, your mind immediately went to Watson—that's certainly what mine did! But _Mary_ is the one who was probably born in India, spent the first few years of her life there, and quite possibly would never have seen snow until her father sent her to Edinburgh. And I need more of Mary Watson in my life, so there you go!


	12. Day 12: No Amateurs Need Apply

_From_ _Wordwielder_ _\- Lestrade frets over what to buy Gregson._

 **==Day Twelve==  
No Amateurs Need Apply**

Somehow, in all the years they'd been at odds with each other, Inspectors Geoffrey Lestrade and Tobias Gregson had never drawn each other's names for Christmas at Scotland Yard. Every December, Lestrade dreaded the drawing, and every December, he had come away lighthearted in relief.

That is, until the December of 1889. The nightmare became a reality: Lestrade drew Gregson's name.

He'd never been at such a loss before, never mind what Baker Street's Brightest had to say on the subject. In the past, he had known what to get the men he knew and liked, and to the men he didn't know so well, he would give something basic such as a scarf or a Christmas treat. But _Gregson_?

Lestrade supposed he knew more or less what Gregson liked, but he was not feeling particularly charitable. After a recent and extremely successful case, the man had been even more insufferably smug than ever. It would be incredibly galling to give him something nice.

On the other hand, Lestrade didn't want to be mean-spirited, even to his rival. It was truly a dilemma.

His mood was not improved by having to take his cap in hand and pay a call to Baker Street to request aid from a man nearly as insufferable as Gregson. (Mr. Holmes might have won out if Lestrade had had to see him every day, but saints be praised, that was not the case.) After Lestrade had given the amateur detective the facts, the younger man eyed him. "Dear me, Inspector, you aren't worrying over what to give Gregson for Christmas, are you?"

Lestrade stared. "How did you—no, never mind, I don't want to know."

"If you like, I may actually have a suggestion or two—"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Lestrade?"

"I have a thief to bring to justice."

"Of course, Inspector. My apologies."

* * *

 **A/N:** Poor Lestrade. I'm sure he'll figure it out eventually.

By the way, I _am_ sorry these stories aren't longer—I'd like them to be, but I don't have time to write like I used to, and when I get the chance to… well, especially since I'm struggling to keep up, the stories just stay short. *sigh* Maybe next year...


	13. Day 13: A Soul to Take

_From_ _Riandra_ _\- Jack Frost_

 **A/N:** This is by far my longest and weirdest response to a prompt, and in a minute, you'll see why it took me so long to get it done.

 **==Day Thirteen==  
A Soul to Take**

Out on the streets of London, most children knew Jack. He'd run past you, laughing, and leave your nose cold and the cobblestones chilled beneath your feet. Nor was he very kind: a patch of ice on the street or a little frost in the lungs could fell a grown man or freeze a child to death.

But there was one set of children he never harmed: the Baker Street Irregulars. For all his mischief, Jack Frost could be a good playmate when the mood struck him, and he'd taken a particular liking to the ragtag young detective force. The younger boys' spirits were lifted whenever Jack came to call, but Wiggins remained wary of the strange boy who never grew older. He'd seen what Jack could do, and finally, there came a day when he couldn't watch in silence any longer.

"Why did yew do that?!" Wiggins exploded, angry. Jack had sent ice beneath a cab, which then careened into a man crossing the street, knocking him down and assuredly killing him.

"Oh, come off it, Wig," Jack said unconcernedly. "What's it to you? You didn't know him."

"It don't matter. 'E was a person, an' yew killed 'im."

Jack shrugged. "The rules are different for us immortals."

Wiggins stared at the older boy with something akin to loathing. "They shou'n't be. Any man wot done that would've 'ad to face the rope."

Jack turned away slightly. "Well, it doesn't much matter, anyway. I'm almost done."

"Almost done wit' what?"

"I've got a bargain with the Grim Reaper. I owe him a thousand and one souls. _That_ was my thousandth."

A chill ran down Wiggins' spine. "So yew're going to kill one more random person?" Jack still wouldn't look at him, and Wiggins had a horrifying thought. "Yew're not going to kill one of us?"

"No, of course not! I'd never do that!"

"Yew still won' look me in the eye! It's someone we know, innit?"

Jack was uncharacteristically quiet.

Who would they know that Jack would be so hesitant to… oh, no. God in Heaven, no. "Not Mr. 'Olmes."

"Of course not," Jack said, too quickly.

Will felt his face drain of blood. "Yew can't! Why Mr. 'Olmes? Wot's 'e done to yew?!"

Jack sighed. "The Reaper wants him. He didn't tell me why; he never explains why he wants you to do something, he only expects you to do it. I've been in his service for ages."

"Why?"

Jack looked more like a human boy than ever, brown eyes larger, more vulnerable. "I can't tell you, Wig," he said softly. "I'm sorry, but I have to do this. Or I'll never be free."

Wiggins almost pitied him. Almost. But the only thing that mattered to him just now was that Mr. Holmes stay safe and alive. "Thousand an' one souls, that was the original deal?"

"Yes, why?"

Wiggins looked Jack in the eye. "Take mine."

Jack's eyes widened in horror. "Wig, I can't do that!"

"Why not? 'S never mattered before 'oo yew've taken."

"I… I can't. What about the boys? You can't abandon them!"

"If Oi die, Mr. 'Olmes'll look after 'em. 'E'll take care of 'em. If 'e dies…" Wiggins shook his head—that was a future that didn't bear thinking about. The Irregulars needed their employer, the only man who cared enough about them to take care of them in a way that Wiggins would never be able to.

Jack shook his head in turn. "Wiggins, please…"

"Yew were ready to take the life the best man Oi 'ave ever known," Wiggins snarled, eyes blazing. "Yew kin bloody well take mine in 'is place. Then yew kin 'ave yewr precious freedom."

"Wig…"

"Oi'm gonna talk wit' the boys. When Oi'm done…"

Jack looked stricken. "You truly are serious."

Wiggins sighed—he couldn't say that he wanted to die. But if the alternative was… if the alternative was that horrible? "'Ave yew ever loved someone? Loved 'em so much yew'd… do anything to keep 'em safe?"

Jack's eyes were deep with memories; he looked far, far older than Wiggins had ever seen him. "Oh yes," he said hoarsely. "You have no idea."

* * *

The moment David Wiggins died, he was surrounded by all the Baker Street Irregulars, all pleading with him not to do it. But Jack touched his chest, and a shard of ice seemed to pierce his body, straight through his heart…

When he was aware of himself again, he found himself in the oddest setting. He was in a study, paneled with dark wood and covered with books and dimly lit, and it was very much a gentleman's study. (He had gone with Mr. Holmes to more than one crime scene, which was how he knew what he was looking at.) But what was this place? Wasn't he dead?

Then he realized that there was a man sitting behind a desk, writing. An older man, thin, with longish grey hair. The man looked up, and Wiggins startled back, recognizing him. " _Yew_ ," he breathed.

The man looked as startled as he was. "David Jonathan Wiggins. I was not expecting you here at all, much less as Jack Frost's final victim."

"How are yew—"

"Well, you obviously recognize me, so I can only conclude that your employer has sent you spy on me in the past." The man gave a thin-lipped smile. "Where is he, by the by? I had expected him."

"Yew're…" Wiggins couldn't believe it. " _Yew're_ the Grim Reaper?"

"My dear boy, I have many names and many faces in many lands, some quite beyond your ken. Yes, your people call me the Grim Reaper."

Wiggins shook his head slowly, processing it. "'Splains why yew wanted Mr. 'Olmes."

The man laughed dryly. "You put yourself in his place, didn't you? Yes, of course, you did; your loyalty runs deep."

"Where am Oi? Ain't 'Eaven real?"

"Of course it is. Your Sunday School teachers did not lead you astray. I would send you there now, only…"

"Only what?" Wiggins said warily. The man Mr. Holmes had spoken of was dangerous enough, but to find that he was also Death himself? That was the stuff of nightmares and no mistake.

The man regarded him for a long moment. "The thought of _using_ you is so tempting."

A chill crawled down Wiggins' spine.

"But I think not. Not today. You have done a fine thing, saving two souls at once: Holmes and Jack. Such bravery and loyalty deserves a reward."

"What reward?"

"Your life. You are free to return to it."

Wiggins shook his head. "Can't be that easy. Yew want somethin'."

The man shook his head. "My dear Wiggins, I send people freely back far more often than you might suppose. I am, after all, a fisherman, and you are quite a small fish. I am simply throwing you back out for the time being."

"Oi don't owe yew anythin'?" Wiggins asked disbelievingly.

"Not a thing. Go on, now." The man waved a careless hand, returning to his writing, and the study vanished.

The next thing Wiggins knew, he was lying on cobblestones and coughing and attempting to draw in lungfuls of cold air. He opened his eyes and found Mr. Holmes bent over him, grey eyes suspiciously red-rimmed and bright. "Wiggins?!" the detective cried.

"Mister… 'Olmes…" Wiggins gasped between coughs.

"How are you alive? You were dead moments ago; I checked your pulse!" Mr. Holmes looked up and said, "Someone run to Dr. Watson's hospital and fetch him, quick!"

"Oi don't need the Doc," Wiggins wheezed. "Oi'm jes… back."

Mr. Holmes cradled Wiggins in his arms, and Wiggins couldn't really argue with the warmth and comfort of the gesture. "The boys told me what you did," Mr. Holmes murmured. "I wouldn't have believed them, except that Jack Frost was with them, and… it is difficult to hold on to skepticism when the floor of your sitting room is instantly frozen over."

Wiggins laughed, which came out as another series of coughs. "That's Jack, all roight."

Mr. Holmes looked distraught. "Why did you do it, Davy?"

"Jack didn't tell yew? 'E was gonna kill yew; told 'im t' take me instead. The boys… they kin always work out a new leader. Yew… yew can't be replaced, sir."

Mr. Holmes couldn't speak for a minute, and a tear escaped him before he did respond. "Neither can you, Wiggins, believe it or not."

Wiggins shook his head. "Don't matter anyway—got somethin' impor'ant to tell yew. Yew won't believe 'oo Jack was workin' fer…"

* * *

 **A/N:** This one… I don't even know about this one. I'm not entirely satisfied with it. (It was better in my head three days ago… when I had zero chance to write it out...) Part of the problem—both in my dissatisfaction _and_ the writing of it—in the fact that I had several bits of dialogue worked out but not so much narrative to connect them. The narrative was really hard.

Also, so, okay, I see or hear the name Jack Frost, and nowadays my mind goes instantly to Dreamworks' _Rise of the Guardians_ (which is a fun film, btw). But I didn't want to do another crossover; rather, my mind went instantly to "fairytale reimaginings of Sky's own." And I wanted to do something darkish. Welp, you can't get much darker than Jack Frost working for the Grim Reaper! (Whose identity I do hope everyone understood. I just didn't want to come right out and say it. Yes, I'm obsessed. But we're all working on this month-long challenge over a handful of fictional characters, so really, the point's a bit moot. :P)

Well, now I'm back to frantically trying to get caught up before Christmas! I _**will**_ make it!


	14. Day 14: Schooled

_From_ _Hades Lord of the Dead_ _\- Watson takes an interest in politics - why?_

 **A/N:** I'M BACK! So much for getting caught up… Sorry, peeps, real life, Christmas, and _Star Wars_ interfered. Nothing like returning to an old love to distract you from your current one!

 **==Day Fourteen==  
Schooled**

John Watson rather thought he was falling in love with his wife all over again as he watched her locked in verbal combat with Arthur Doyle. There was a small flush to Mary's cheeks, her blue eyes blazing in the firelight, hands clenched in her lap. Five-foot-three of righteous indignation and governess's willpower, and she was magnificent. Watson found himself thinking thoughts that were best left for when he and his wife were alone in the house, and wrenched his focus back, glancing at Doyle in amusement.

The younger doctor had never seen it coming. He'd made a derogatory comment about women's suffrage, and Mary had lit into him for it with the wrath of God. Irish stubbornness on Doyle's part and Scottish ire on Mary's had resulted in the current debate.

And Mary was winning, as she always did; even if she did not manage to change Doyle's mind about the suffragists, she would at least ensure that he would never speak of them in such away again, at least in front of other women!

Watson continued to watch, enjoying himself too much. Mary had surprised him, as well, initially, in asking him what he thought of women's suffrage. To his shame, he had admitted that he'd never given it much thought— _shame_ , because he was always so ready to fight the injustice where he saw it in his work with Holmes, in his work with other doctors in the East End. He'd come to think of himself as a man who championed the rights of the downtrodden, and yet he'd never considered the injustice of the fact that he was allowed to have a say in the development of those rights, and his wife was not.

It was a mistake he'd never made again. And, in this moment, watching his wife thoroughly defeat a highly intelligent young man in a debate, the fact that she could not vote at all had never felt more unfair.

* * *

 **A/N:** So, I've never thought about it this way before, but Mary's father seems to have sent her to _Edinburgh_. She had no living relatives in England, and thus she's sent to Scotland? Could be that Mary is Scottish by at least one parent.

Also, at first, this was one of those prompts which will have me sitting back and thinking, "Okay, _how_ do I handle this?" The answer turned out to be beautifully simple: Mary being a suffragist—which had not evolved yet into the more dramatic demonstrations of the _suffragette_ —totally worked with how I write the character. Doyle, on the other hand, did not think too highly of women's suffrage, as I seem to recall. It was a clash that was bound to happen, and I can just imagine Watson in the background with popcorn, cheering on his wife. :D


	15. Day 15: Growth

_From_ _KnightFury_ _\- The Norwood Builder all over again - only this time, the client has a wife and three small children. Worse still, he is likely to be hanged just days before Christmas._

 **==Day Fifteen==  
Growth**

The case of John Hector McFarlane had taught Geoffrey Lestrade the value of keeping his mind open to _all_ possibilities. He had conceded victory to Mr. Holmes in cases before, but this one had left him shaken. Poor young McFarlane had come so close to the rope, and not a drop of blood on his hands—worse still, his murderer, for all intents and purposes, would have waltzed away, with his thirst for revenge fulfilled.

The case Gregson had just wrapped up bore an eerie resemblance to the McFarlane Case, except that the condemned man this time was married, with three small children. The man, Horace Crawford, had already been tried and sentenced to be hung, just three days before Christmas.

Learning about the whole thing had given Lestrade a sick feeling in his stomach, and that sick feeling had propelled him out of his office and down to 221B Baker Street. He gave Sherlock Holmes the facts of the case, as far as he knew them, and waited. Mr. Holmes considered for a long moment, then fixed Lestrade with that one look of his that was uncomfortably piercing, as if he could see right through his colleague. "Inspector, it appears that Gregson has an airtight case."

"I understand that, Mr. Holmes. But… you may laugh at me, but I feel that there is something wrong. I can't explain it better than that."

Mr. Holmes's eyes widened briefly, but then he nodded. "I see. I will do what I can, Lestrade, though I make no promises."

Nevertheless, thanks to the efforts of Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, Horace Crawford returned to his family the day he would have been hanged.

* * *

 **A/N:** There's such a difference in Lestrade just between "Norwood Builder" and "Six Napoleons"—he's much more willing to trust Holmes. I _adore_ how Colin Jeavons plays Lestrade's reaction to the big reveal in NORW: shock and then disgust and horror. Maybe it scared Lestrade into thinking things through thoroughly.

Merry Christmas Eve!


	16. Day 16: Dancing

_From_ _Garonne_ _\- Ice skating_

 **==Day Sixteen==  
Dancing**

She laughed as she spun on the ice, her coppery hair flying around her, a wild flash of color in a world of whites and muted blues and browns. "Dance with me," she called, holding out her hands in invitation.

He sighed. "You know I'm not good at it."

"You don't practice enough. You can do anything you put your mind to, and you know it. Come on."

 _But I'd much rather watch you_. Sighing again, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat—he never could resist her—and moved forward, wobbling on his skates.

"That's it. Come on…"

He reached her, and she took his hands and led him gently. At the speed they moved, it would have felt like dancing in syrup if he hadn't still been unsteady on his feet. It was disconcerting—he had an excellent sense of balance, save when on skates, and he preferred having more control over his circumstances than this. But he looked up, and her grey-green eyes were shining with delight.

He never could resist her.

He shook his head fondly. "It takes so little to make you happy."

"Thank goodness that's true for _one_ of us, Sherlock Holmes," she shot back, eyes dancing now with mischief.

"Miss Adler, you wound me!"

She gave a highly unladylike snort and shook her head, spinning around and coming to stop with her back against his chest. She tilted her head up, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright, full lips grinning. "Really."

He was staring for several seconds before he realized it, and that she'd spoken. Cursing his sudden and inexplicable lack of focus, he said, "Oh, quite."

The light in her eyes dimmed for a moment, so quickly that he thought he might have imagined it. "Well. I imagine you'll live, nonetheless. Now come on." She pulled him forward, further out on to the ice, ignoring his protests, and continued their strange and off-kilter dance.

Well, it was hardly the worst she'd done to him.

* * *

 **A/N:** First off, sorry for the long delay! Having a trio of younger siblings home on Christmas break made time and peace to write all but impossible!

Secondly, heh, did I smuggle a Holmes/Irene story in here? Why, yes, I did! I'm playing with the idea of their having known each other pre-SCAN, even growing up together. So this little vignette would occur sometime in their teens (for the record, the way that I calculate Holmes's age is that he's actually the same age as Irene, born in 1858).

If you like Holmes/Irene at all, I might be doing more stories for them separate from this challenge in the future! If not you don't… well, sorry! I couldn't pass up the chance to try my hand at it once the plot bunny hit!


	17. Day 17: O Tannebaum

_From_ _Wordwielder_ _\- Greenery_

 **==Day Seventeen==  
O Tannebaum**

"Moran, what is this?"

"It's a Christmas tree, Professor. Haven't you seen one before?"

"You know very well that I have. What, pray, is it doing in my office?"

"I thought the old place could do with a bit of—"

"Moran, do not say _Christmas cheer_."

"...seasonal greenery."

"Ah."

"Festive, you know. Brightens the… room..."

"Moran?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get it out."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

 **A/N:** Finally managed to sneak in another go with these two! I usually don't do dialogue-only one-shots but this one seems to work really well that way!t


End file.
